Date sent: Tue, 31 Mar 1998 16:41:16 -0800 From: Elizabeth Miller Subject: S&E III - A Grade-AA Valentine's Day TITLE: Soap and Eggs III - A Grade-AA Valentine's Day AUTHOR: Elizabeth Miller CATEGORY: S R A RATING: PG-13 for some language and sexual innuendo. SPOILERS/TIMELINE: This story is part three of an alternate universe series, which splits off from the normal XF time stream right after "Demons." This means that NOTHING that happened in "Redux" (like a certain someone taking a bullet) has happened here. It will all be much clearer if you read "Soap and Eggs", the first story, and "Soap and Eggs II - An Ivory-White Christmas", the sequel. You can find them at the Gossamer Archive or ask me for them. There's a slight plagiarization from "Memento Mori". You'll know it when you see it. KEYWORDS: Mulder/Scully romance. Alternate universe. SUMMARY: The stage is set for the final conclusion. DISCLAIMER: This story contains characters and mythology spawned by The X-Files, a show copyrighted by CC and 1013 Productions. The other cultural icons mentioned belong to their respective creators, but the actual plot and text are mine. Video store clerks don't earn enough for decent legal defense, so please don't sue me over anything within. DISTRIBUTION: Please forward to A.T.X.C. Archive anywhere you like - but let me know (just because I like knowing where my stories are) and keep my name with it. AUTHOR'S NOTE: There are two XF fanfics out there with the title of "Smoking" - and they are both wonderful reads. Their authors are wonderful people as well - so thanks go to Whitney Cox (AKA Angel) for her "help" with this story and all my other endeavors, and to Alanna Baker and Michaela Iery for permission to use a small inside joke here. Please send me e-mail. PLEASE. This story is a build-up to what will probably be the final part of the "Soap and Eggs" saga - but that part won't get written if I don't know that people want this series to continue. Or if they even care. Address is elizabeth@millerclan.com - and I can't wait to hear what you think of..... Soap and Eggs III - A Grade-AA Valentine's Day By Elizabeth Miller "Be aware that a halo has to fall only a few inches in order to become a noose." -Dan McKinnon "The knowledge that a secret exists is half of the secret." -Joshua Meyrowitz "Uh oh this means no fear cavalier renegade steer clear A tournament a tournament a tournament of lies Offer me solutions offer me alternatives and I decline." -R.E.M., "It's The End Of The World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)" It has been unclear to me as to how the letter ended up on my desk. Placed between my ashtray and the telephone sometime before I came in this morning, it was nearly invisible, given how my entire desk is always littered with papers. But yet it stood out, catching my eye almost immediately. I have an eye for detail. It has come in handy over the years. Certainly, it was not the work of some enigmatic informant, the sort that mysteriously appear and then disappear with sage advice, dire warnings, and classified documents. I say this mainly because I've made a career out of eliminating such men and women. And also because my activities are generally the ones being informed upon. A Long Esophagus or Ms. Z has little to offer me when it comes to information. Besides, I would have come across the letter eventually. The best assumption I can make is that the letter was left by one of my associates, one of those unnamed men who knows how closely I'm following the Grisham Situation (so monikered by a rather young assistant who saw the similarities between the Agents and the heros of books like _The Pelican Brief_). And although I would like to assume that he or she left it for my own edification, I know all too well that my interest in the situation is spoken of in whispers when I am just out of earshot. They are mocking me, I know. My position in the organization, after all, has never been very secure - if events had worked out differently, I might have ended up on the wrong end of a sniper rifle a long time ago. But now they need me. The Agents were mine to control in the old days, and now I am the one who knows them best. I can understand their plans, predict their moves. My compatriots cannot afford to lose me at this stage in the game. Especially with so much at stake. And it is clear now, from reading the letter, that we have much more to worry about. You'd never think that such a document could be the springer of such problems, given how grease-stained and wrinkled it is. The odor of potatoes and almost-beef suggests that it was pulled out of a fast food restaurant dumpster. In fact, it seems almost miraculous that these tattered sheets of paper made it all the way to my smoky New York office without giving up and decomposing. And they certainly don't seem important enough to be worth the amount of scrutiny that they'll receive in just a few short hours. But appearances, I have always believed, are deceiving. Content is what counts. February 14, 2002 Valentine's Day You'll never read this, Scully. If I can help it. Don't think that it's a lack of trust, or love. At the risk of sounding like Ridge, the escapee from a bodice-ripper paperback, they're both things that we share in abundance. It's just a lack of faith in myself. You see, some stuff happened today that I need to share with someone. If we were together now, that someone would be the real you. But since we aren't, I'm substituting the Scully who keeps me company on lonely nights and long drives. The Scully who dwells solely within my imagination. So you won't read this, unless you somehow find it and I'm... not there. And I hope that won't happen. I mean, I REALLY hope that won't happen. But even though I won't imagine your ever seeing this, it's still soothing to write something directed towards my mental image of you. After all, you've been almost everything else to me for years now - confidant especially. So I confide in you, dear Scully, about the irony of the date du jour. For I've thought about it some and it seems to be intentional. After all, Fate and I go way back, and Fate's always found a way to taunt me like this. It's almost predictable that I would have to make the choice I made today, when everyone else in the free world is obsessed with love and romance. I chose what I did for love, Scully, you gotta believe me on that one. I said "No" because saying yes might have betrayed everything. Everything you and I believe in, everything that keeps us unified. My "no", however, will keep us separated for a while longer yet. And that's where the irony comes in. On the holiday of romance, I ended up denying the one person who, by all counts, is my own personal definition of the L-word. That's where it gets odd, though. Ours is such an unusual relationship - you know that. And there are times when it seems that what we feel has nothing to do with romance. Completely unconnected to hearts and flowers and valentines. Just us needing each other in every way that anyone could possibly imagine.... Well, now that I think about it - yeah. There is THAT. But it's weird, Scully. Because I think of you all the time - believe me, Scully, ALL THE TIME - but it's usually about other stuff. The really important stuff. How you smile. The way you look when you cuss me out. The way you'll toss everything I throw at you right back. How you'll outsmart me and everyone else around you without even a little effort. And how you're with me even when you're not. But I don't often think about THAT. Believe me, Scully, I have nothing against THAT - absolutely nothing against THAT. Never get that impression, for my sake. But THAT's something that's connected to all THIS. It didn't start until THIS did, it probably wouldn't have started if THIS hadn't happened, and THAT's the whole reason why THIS is bearable. THIS and THAT are as connected as you and I are. And you know how close that is. Sorry - got mushy for a second. And even my mental Scully has little tolerance for mush. I'll get back on subject. I'm currently hanging around Southern Florida - nice place in February - and this morning, I ended up driving over to the Miami Bureau of Customs and Immigration. Wearing decent clothing, even. The M.C. Escher tie. Only slightly wrinkled khakis and button-down. You would have been proud. It's never come up when we see each other, but I do that a lot - hang out around Customs and Immigration offices. Especially when I'm cruising around the US border. Did it in Idaho, did it in Texas, did it in Michigan. Didn't do it in Missouri - but there really wasn't a lot to do in Missouri in the first place. You see, ever since we started this odyssey, I've been learning as much as I can about three things. One, how much background a newspaper will need before it will bring forth extremely serious allegations of treachery against our government (not to mention contradicting that whole We-Are-God's-Only-Creations thing). Two, which pharmaceutical companies could be coerced into manufacturing a lifetime's supply of Kalocin - a long, full lifetime's worth. And three - if a late-thirties American female and a early-forties American male could cross the American border at some point and never be seen again. Number one's been a joke. Number two isn't much better. But number three.... Had a breakthrough with number three today, Scully. It's just that the means isn't that attractive, though the end result is something you and I both long for. And for all our differences, I know that you and I will always agree to "rage against the dying of the light." It's one of the numerous things I love about you. It's a long list. But that one's up pretty high on it. And it's because of that reason that today was so disappointing. Because I had to make a decision for both of us, a big one, and I can't be completely sure that I did the right thing. Especially when it comes to you. Before all this, I could have just looked into your eyes and gotten the answers. But you and your eyes are far away now. And, I don't know how to say this, but when I look into your eyes on our Halloweens, the Scully I knew so long ago is harder to see. You've changed - changed into a woman I still need intensely, but don't know as well as I once did. I can't imagine what these years have been like for you - but I do know that they've stolen something from you, something that you may not be able to regain. I will ALWAYS love you. And I realize that, in the end, you would agree with what I told Tessa Mannes. But the years of solitude have left me a little insecure about everything, Scully. Even you. You've probably already guessed that I met Mannes at the Customs Bureau - another reason why I love you, always two steps ahead of me - and you'd be right. I had called the place ahead of time and hers was the first human voice I heard, telling me calmly that, yes, I could come by and meet with her about my early retirement plans whenever it was convenient. That was just scary by itself - I know from experience that government employees aren't supposed to be that helpful - but I figured that I had just lucked upon the only friendly public servant in the country. And I let my guard drop. Stupid mistake, I know. I've chewed my own ass out about it enough for both of us. But it's pointless to think about, because it won't change anything. The past is the past. I'm losing the story, though. The point is, that I trusted Mannes. Trusted her enough to meet with her in person, to spin her my little fabrication about wanting to travel around the Bahamas on a boat with my wife, now that I was financially able to give up the rat race. And she sat there, in her little cage of a cubicle, in the crowded and dank basement of the building, nodding intelligently, listening to every word. She had arresting eyes, Scully, I tell you that. Probably kicked ass in staring contests when she was younger. And when she was done listening to my story, those eyes began skimming over documents, sorting through papers, trying to figure out what facts were important to my case and which weren't. Set in a small, round face, her eyes seemed like razor blades sticking through a lump of dough - sharpness and softness uneasily meshed together. "Well, Mr. Pequod," she said at last, "There are a few problems with what you'd like to do - especially if you and your wife are unable to get passports before you leave." I had told her that we needed to leave as soon as possible, because we had already found a buyer for our current home and the person willing to sell us the boat couldn't wait much longer. The lies were fun, I'll admit - being able to conjure up this whole other life for us was soothing. It was like the recognition of a fantasy life as reality. Of course, the reality of it is that customs checks involve too much paperwork, too much of a paper trail that could lead from Justin Pequod and Lea Flask to Fox Mulder and Dana Scully. And the Gunmen can't reproduce passports these days - something about the new magnetic strips. They have theories... Sorry to ramble - back to what Mannes was saying. It is pretty important. "The main problem, I think, would be that you really wouldn't be able to reenter the country. Small islands aren't that difficult, but it'd be close to impossible for you to dock your boat in American waters and get on shore without submitting to passport and customs checks, which would be pretty close to impossible for you to do without a passport. "You'd have to pretty much disappear." Her exact words, Scully. I'm not making this up. But I hadn't caught onto what's probably obvious to you by this point, though, and didn't bat an eyelash. Just asked her if there was anything else I should be aware of. "You might have some problems with the local governments, and you couldn't go to any American Embassy for help if you found yourself in some trouble, because the Embassy wouldn't be able to confirm your citizenship. And they would have some questions to ask about why you left the country in the first place. It would be difficult for you to receive any real help from the authorities. But I imagine that you've already accepted that?" I nodded. And, in her eyes, her victory was blatant. The razor blades were focused upon me, full-blast. "There's some other information you'll need, but I don't have it here. Will you be in town long?" My plans were to move on to Key Largo tomorrow, so I had to tell her no. "Then meet me here-" she took out a small Xerox of a tourist's Metro map and marked one street corner with an X "-at around eight o'clock. It's a small bar, The Kokomo - we'll get a drink and I'll tell you the rest of what you need to know." You don't say no to eyes like that, Scully, even though I knew how extremely odd this was. Public servants do NOT do this sort of stuff - either she was asking me out, or there was something even stranger going on. Neither option was very attractive, and I should have said no and walked straight out of there. But, with all the recklessness you've come to expect from me, I said yes and put the map in my pocket. And even more recklessly, I waited on a bar stool at 8:03 PM. She wasn't late, and I found that the contrast between her eyes and her face in the rest of her body - a soft, plump form concealed by a sharply angled blouse and crisp no-nonsense slacks. The creases seemed to levitate above her curves. What had been hidden behind a desk before, but was obvious to me now, was that this was a hard woman trapped in a soft body. A nebulous form with a core of steel. She had been right - it was a fairly small bar - but we were able to choose a table fairly out of the way. And she got right down to business. "I'm not working with Them. I'm not one of Them. You have to understand that." She said it so innocuously, so sincerely - never mind what it implied for us. And I don't know how to describe my reaction, Scully. Shock's definitely involved, but there's also a mixture of self-loathing and fear to be accounted for, not to mention some wounded pride (never expected anyone to recognize me with dyed hair), panic (if the past could catch up with me, what about you?), not to mention a near loss of bladder control... I'll keep it simple and say that the statement definitely caught me off-guard. She kept going, confusing and unnerving me more with each word. "Of course, They think I'm with Them, but there's another Them out there, which is dedicated to fighting against the main Them - the lack of names gets kind of confusing, I know, but you get used to it - and that's who I'm with. The other Them." Her eyes were focused on me, hard as flint, and their strength kept me dumbfounded. I still sat there, silent. "And We need your help. And her help as well." I'll give you one guess on who the "her" was, Scully. I sure didn't need any clarification. "With the information you both have, We could eliminate Them, make sure that They did not succeed with what They're planning. And They MUST NOT SUCCEED." She practically snarled the last out. She seemed to be quite vehement on the subject. I managed to say something at this point, vaguely resembling "How?". "How did We find you, you mean?" A nod on my part - my conversation skills have never been the greatest. "Stupid mistakes. Nobody's perfect, you know. You and her have slipped up from time to time, and We've managed to keep track of you because of them. But the other Them don't have all the information that We do - They have more pull with those above than They do with those on ground. That's why you're both still alive, really." The only thing I could say came to my lips deceptively easily: "You know where she is." "Yes, We do - and They have a vague idea. However, We weren't completely sure about your location, though you solved the problem for Us." There was too much in what she was saying to decipher. And her eyes - I think they were gray, though you didn't really notice the color - weren't helping my powers of concentration. I had, so far, gotten the impression that you weren't in any immediate danger, which comforted me a little. And it helped me focus a bit more intently. "What do you want?" When I said it, it didn't sound like my voice - a bit too hollow. "To make a deal. The tapes for your freedom. We'll... deal with Them, and you two sail off into the sunset, free to roam the ocean and explore the thousand beaches of the Bahamas. No more lying, no more hiding. You'll be able to live your lives again. Live together again. How long have you been separated now?" Four years, Scully. Four years, four months, and seventeen days. Longer than four decades. "You have to give me an answer right now, and you have to hand over the tape - right now. I'll hide you somewhere, and We'll collect your partner, then send you both on your merry ways." I couldn't respond. Stuff like this isn't supposed to happen so easily, after all. We've been wandering the country and watching our backs for four years now - and all of a sudden, this little lady was giving us exactly what we needed. It was surreal. Sometimes going along with good fortune isn't such an awful idea. And I opened my mouth to say yes, that I'd do it, that I'd give up everything if I knew that you and I would be together again, safe and sound. But I kept myself from doing so. Enough years on the run will teach a man restraint, after all. And I had recovered from my shock enough to switch back into paranoia mode. You'd have been proud of me. "How am I supposed to trust you? You could be just be one of Them, hoping I'd believe you and hand over the tape." "I could be." "You could be an assassin hired to kill me, gaining my trust with your promises, then luring me somewhere private." "It's possible." "You could be some random nutcase who has *no* idea what she's talking about." "Even that's plausible. I could be all of those things. And I can't change your opinions on the subject." There was only one question to ask. "Then how can I trust that you are who you say you are? That the second you have the tape, I won't end up with a knife in my back." "I have no assurances for you. But you pass up this opportunity, you never get it again. Your partner either. We can't wait around for you to change your minds - we have to stop Them before it's too late, and we need to plan around your lack of involvement." It seemed too easy, her promises of a better life where someone else took up the struggle and left us alone at last. We've suffered plenty, I know - but this is our fight. And I couldn't just give it up like that. Especially without your consent, and especially without the knowledge that what I was doing was the right thing. There have been times when I've thought about ditching the car, getting a ride on a fishing boat, and heading out to the Florida Keys, then disappearing to San Salvador or Grand Bahama Island. Never to be seen again. But I can't abandon you. And I can't abandon the quest. Tessa Mannes could have been one of Them, trying to make me give up our only bargaining chip, our only safeguard for survival. She could have been telling me a thousand different lies at once. She could have even been telling the truth - but how can we say that a conspiracy ruled by these new Them would be better than the old Them? I've always thought that there might be some dissension among Them, and so Mannes' proclamation only confirmed that. It's not that surprising, to be honest. Devils have no good reason for loyalty, but many good reasons for betrayal. I can't side with anyone I don't trust. And I trust only you, Scully. I'm still not sure what you would have said, given the choice. You might have agreed with me, or you might have looked at me with those aching eyes of yours and begged me to end this. Like you did in that small diner in Maryland, when all you wanted to do was go home and see your sister before she was gone for good. I continue to believe that you'd have agreed with me. But it's been shown in the past that not everything I believe in is one hundred percent accurate. So I told her no. That it was too uncertain, that I couldn't take the risk. She nodded slowly, and then stood up. With hard eyes, watching me - eyes that had always been watching me, on busy streets and through hidden cameras and in public and private whenever they could - and an ambiguous body, impossible to completely see, impossible to name, impossible to identify, disguised by ill-fitting covers and almost-masking sheaths. "You're making the wrong decision. But it's your decision to make. One other thing?" I nodded. "I'm not one of Them, but They don't know that. And I have to file my reports in completion, just like everyone else, or They'll get suspicious." She walked out of the bar then, leaving me stunned. But then I saw the little scrap of paper she had left behind on the table. I picked it up and read it. It was the obvious thing to do. And boy, was she prepared. Typed onto nice, clean paper, all it said was: *Run, Fox.* I thought about it for two seconds, and then dashed for the Rabbit. I was out of Miami in an hour. So, here I am, parked in a McDonald's parking lot somewhere in the suburbs, writing this before the details escape me. It's calming, in a way. Almost as calming as telling stories about Mr. and Mrs. Pequod, planning a retirement cruise. Almost as calming as searching your eyes for answers. Almost as comforting as rocking my body against yours. Almost as soothing as cupping your small head, the vessel of your brilliant brain and the center of your dear soul. Almost as nurturing as the dream of opening my eyes every morning to see that small head on the pillow next to mine. The dreaming has been enough for me for a long time - it kept me going before THIS and THAT, and keeps me going now. And the dream of joining up with you after a successful journey, completed on OUR terms, is a dream that can wait. It can wait until we've won. And if we don't win... Then we'll piece something together. Hope can keep me going - it always has before. I feel these words as if their meaning were weight being lifted from me. And though I no longer believe that the Truth will save us, I do believe that the Truth will avenge us. For once the Truth is set free from the lies, all of this will be validated. All of our pain. All of our loneliness. We are the guardians of the Truth now, Scully. And we can't be too careful with what we do with it. It's all we have left, after all, besides each other. I just flipped on the radio. R.E.M.'s "It's The End Of The World As We Know It" is playing on some old rock station. Oh, honey. It's our song. The letter ends there - the last page was probably lost to a homeless man who wanted a wrapper for his day-old Big Mac. But Mr. Mulder never uttered truer words. It's only going to get worse from here. Comments to elizabeth@millerclan.com. Thank you for reading.